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Wednesday, December 5, 2007

I catch myself tryingto look into the eyesof the photo, at a black boybehind a laughing white maskhe’s painted on. Icould’ve been that boyyears ago.Sure, I could sayeverything’s copacetic,listen to a Buddy Bolden cornetcry from one of those coffin-shaped houses calledshotgun. We couldmeet in Storyville,famous for quadroons,with drunks discussing Godaround a honky-tonk piano.We could pretend we can’tsee the kitchen helpunder a cloud of steam.Other lurid snow jobs:night & day, the cityclothed in her see-throughFrench lace, as pigeonscoo like a beggar chorusamong makeshift studioson wheels—Vieux Carrébelles having portraits paintedtwenty years younger. We could hand jivedown on Bourbon & Contiwhere tap dancers holdto their last steps,mammy dolls frozenin glass cages. The boylocked inside your camera,perhaps he’s lucky—he knows how to steallaughs in a placewhere your skinis your passport.

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was sweptAnd strewn with rushes, rosemary and mayLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I sleptAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say:"Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept.He did not touch the shroud, or raise the foldThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:He did not love me living; but once deadHe pitied me; and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm though I am cold.

well I wanted to braid my hairbathe and bedeck myself so fineso fully aforethought foryour pleasuresee:I wanted to travel and readand runaround fantasticinto war and peace:I wanted tosurfdiveflyclimbconquerand be conqueredTHENI wanted to pickup the phoneand find you asking meif I might possibly be alonesome night(so I could answer coolas the jewels I would wearon bareskin for youdigmedaddy delectation:)"WHENyou comin ova?"But I had to remember to write downmargarine on the listand shoepolish and a can ofsliced pineapple in casea companyand a quarta skim milk cause Teresa'sgaining weight and don' nobody groove onthat muchgirland next I hadta sort for darks and lights beforethe laundry hit the water which I hadto kinda keep an eye on be-cause if the big hose jumps the sink again thatMrs. Thompson gointa come upstairsand brain me with a mop don' smell toonice even though she hangit headfirst out the windaand I had to checkon William like toburn hisself to death with feverboy so thin becallin all day "Momma! Sing to me?""Ma! Am I gone die?" and me notwake enough to sit beside him longer thanto wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/his shirt and feed him orangejuice before I fall out of sleep andSweet My Jesus ain but one canleftand we not thru the afternoonand nowyou (temporarily) shownup with a thingyou says' a poem and youcall it"Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"guilty po' mouthabout duty beauties of myheadragboozeup doozies aboutnever mindcause love is blindwellI can't use itand the very next bodacious Blackmancall me queenbecause my life ain shitbecause (in any case) he ain been here to share itwith me(dish for dish and do for do anddream for dream)I'm gone scream him out my housebe-cause what I wanted wasto braid my hair/bathe and bedeck myself so fully be-cause what I wanted wasyour lovenot pitybe-cause what I wanted wasyour loveyour love

1.Pity the bathtub that belongs to the queen its feetAre bronze casts of the former queen's feet its sheenA sign of fretting is that an inferior stone shows throughWhere the marble is worn away with industriousPolishing the tub does not take long it is tiny some sayBecause the queen does not want room for splashingThe maid thinks otherwise she knows the kingDoes not grip the queen nightly in his arms there areOthers the queen does not have lovers she obeysHer mother once told her your ancestry is your only Support then is what she gets in the bathtub she floatsNever holds her nose and goes under not becauseShe might sink but because she knows to keep her earsAbove water she smiles at the circle of courtiers belowHer feet are kicking against walls which cannot giveSatisfaction at best is to manage to stay clean

2.Pity the bathtub its forced embrace of the whims ofOne man loves but is not loved in return by the objectOf his affection there is little to tell of his professionThere is more for it is because he works with glassThat he thinks things are clear (he loves) and adjustable(she does not love) he knows how to take somethingSmall and hard and hot and make room forHis breath quickens at night as he dreams of her he wantsTo create a present unlike any other and because he cannotHold her he designs something that can a bathtub ofGlass shimmers red when it is hot he pours it into the moldIn a rush of passion only as it begins to cool does it reflectHis foolishness enrages him he throws off his clothes meaningTo jump in and lie there but it is still too hot and his feet propelHim forward he runs from one end to the other then fallsTo the floor blisters begin to swell on his soft feet he watchesHis pain harden into a pretty pattern on the bottom of the bath

3.Pity the bathtub its forced embrace of the humanForm may define external appearance but there is roomFor improvement within try a soapdish that allows forSlippage is inevitable as is difference in the size ofThe subject may hoard his or her bubbles at differentEnd of the bathtub may grasp the sponge tightly orLoosely it may be assumed that eventually everyone gets inThe bath has a place in our lives and our place isWithin it we have control of how much hot how much coldWhat to pour in how long we want to stay when toReturn is inevitable because we need somethingTo define ourselves against even if we know thatWhenever we want we can pull the plug and get outWhich is not the case with our own tighter confinementInside the body oh pity the bathtub but pity us too

my mother pushed my sister out of the apartment door withan empty suitcase because she kept threatening to run awaymy sister was sick of me getting the best of everything thebathrobe with the pink stripes instead of the red the softmiddle piece of bread while she got the crust I was sick withasthma and she thought this made me a favorite

I wanted to be like the girl in the made-for-tv movie Maybe I'll Come Home in the Spring which was supposed to make younot want to run away but it looked pretty fun especiallyall of the agony it put your parents through and the girl wasin California or someplace warm with a boyfriend and theyalways found good food in the dumpsters at least they couldeat pizza and candy and not meat loaf the runaway actresswas Sally Field or at least someone who looked like Sally Fieldas a teenager the Flying Nun propelled by the huge wingson the sides of her wimple Arnold the Pig getting draftedin Green Acres my understanding then of Vietnam I readGo Ask Alice and The Peter Pan Bag books that were designedto keep a young girl home but there were the sex scenes andif anything this made me want to cut my hair with scissorsin front of the mirror while I was high on marijuana but Icouldn't inhale because of my lungs my sister was the oneto pass out behind the church for both of us rum and angel dust

and that's how it was my sister standing at the top of allthose stairs that lead up to the apartment and she pushed downthe empty suitcase that banged the banister and wall as it tumbledand I was crying on the other side of the door because I was sureit was my sister who fell all ketchup blood and stuck out bonesmy mother wouldn't let me open the door to let my sisterback in I don't know if she knew it was just the suitcase or notshe was cold rubbing her sleeves a mug of coffee in her handand I had to decide she said I had to decide right then

Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzlingthe facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father beginsto lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a storyabout sandlot baseball in Commerce, Oklahoma decades ago.These were men's teams, grown men, some in their thirtiesand forties who worked together in zinc mines or on oil rigs,sweat and khaki and long beers after work, steel guitar musicwhanging in their ears, little white rent houses to return towhere their wives complained about money and broken Kenmoresand then said the hell with it and sang Body and Soulin the bathtub and later that evening with the kids asleeplay in bed stroking their husband's wrist tattoo and smokingChesterfields from a fresh pack until everything was O.K.Well, you get the idea. Life goes on, the next day is Sunday,another ball game, and the other team shows up one man short.

They say, we're one man short, but can we use this boy,he's only fifteen years old, and at least he'll make a game.They take a look at the kid, muscular and kind of knowingthe way he holds his glove, with the shoulders loose,the thick neck, but then with that boy's face undera clump of angelic blonde hair, and say, oh, hell, sure,let's play ball. So it all begins, the men loosening up,joking about the fat catcher's sex life, it's so badlast night he had to hump his wife, that sort of thing,pairing off into little games of catch that heat up intothrowing matches, the smack of the fungo bat, lazy jogginginto right field, big smiles and arcs of tobacco juice,and the talk that gives a cool, easy feeling to the air,talk among men normally silent, normally brittle and a littleangry with the empty promise of their lives. But they chatterand say rock and fire, babe, easy out, and go right aheadand pitch to the boy, but nothing fancy, just hard fastballsright around the belt, and the kid takes the first twobut on the third pops the bat around so quick and surethat they pause a moment before turning around to watchthe ball still rising and finally dropping far beyondthe abandoned tractor that marks left field. Holy shit.They're pretty quiet watching him round the bases,but then, what the hell, the kid knows how to hit a ball,so what, let's play some goddamned baseball here.And so it goes. The next time up, the boy gets a lookat a very nifty low curve, then a slider, and the next oneis the curve again, and he sends it over the Allis Chalmers,high and big and sweet. The left field just stands there, frozen.As if this isn't enough, the next time up he bats left-handed.They can't believe it, and the pitcher, a tall, mean-facedman from Okarche who just doesn't give a shit anywaybecause his wife ran off two years ago leaving him withthree little ones and a rusted-out Dodge with a cracked block,leans in hard, looking at the fat catcher like he was the sonofabitchwho ran off with his wife, leans in and throws somethingout of the dark, green hell of forbidden fastballs, somethingthat comes in at the knees and then leaps viciously towardsthe kid's elbow. He swings exactly the way he did right-handedand they all turn like a chorus line toward deep right fieldwhere the ball loses itself in sagebrush and the sad burntdust of dustbowl Oklahoma. It is something to see.

But why make a long story long: runs pile up on both sides,the boy comes around five times, and five times the pitcheris cursing both God and His mother as his chew of tobacco soursinto something resembling horse piss, and a ragged and bruisedSpalding baseball disappears into the far horizon. Goodnight,Irene. They have lost the game and some painful side betsand they have been suckered. And it means nothing to themthough it should to you when they are told the boy's name isMickey Mantle. And that's the story, and those are the facts.But the facts are not the truth. I think, though, as I scanthe faces of these old men now lost in the innings of their youth,it lying there in the weeds behind that Allis Chalmersjust waiting for the obvious question to be asked: why, ohwhy in hell didn't they just throw around the kid, walk him,after he hit the third homer? Anybody would have,especially nine men with disappointed wives and dirty socksand diminishing expectations for whom winning at anythingmeant everything. Men who knew how to play the game,who had talent when the other team had nothing except this ringerwho without a pitch to hit was meaningless, and they could go homewith their little two-dollar side bets and stride into the housesinging If You've Got the Money, Honey, I've Got the Timewith a bottle of Southern Comfort under their arms and grabDixie or May Ella up and dance across the gray linoleumas if it were V-Day all over again. But they did notAnd they did not because they were men, and this was a boy.And they did not because sometimes after making love,after smoking their Chesterfields in the cool silence andlistening to the big bands on the radio that sounded so glamorous,so distant, they glanced over at their wives and noticed the linesgrowing heavier around the eyes and mouth, felt what their wivesfelt: that Les Brown and Glenn Miller and all those dancing couplesand in fact all possibility of human gaiety and light-heartednesswere as far away and unreachable as Times Square or the Avalonballroom. They did not because of the gray linoleum lying therein the half-dark, the free calendar from the local mortuarythat said one day was pretty much like another, the work gloveslooped over the doorknob like dead squirrels. And they did notbecause they had gone through a depression and a war that had leftthem with the idea that being a man in the eyes of their fathersand everyone else had cost them just too goddamn much to lay itat the feet of a fifteen year-old-boy. And so they did not walk him,and lost, but at least had some ragged remnant of themselvesto take back home. But there is one thing more, though it is nota fact. When I see my friend's father staring hard into the bottomlesswell of home plate as Mantle's fifth homer heads toward Arkansas,I know that this man with the half-orphaned children andworthless Dodge has also encountered for the first and possiblyonly time the vast gap between talent and genius, has seenas few have in the harsh light of an Oklahoma Sunday, the blondeand blue-eyed bringer of truth, who will not easily be forgiven.

The word I spoke in angerweighs less than a parsley seed,but a road runs through itthat leads to my grave,that bought-and-paid-for loton a salt-sprayed hill in Trurowhere the scrub pinesoverlook the bay.Half-way I'm dead enough,strayed from my own natureand my fierce hold on life.If I could cry, I'd cry,but I'm too old to beanybody's child.Liebchen,with whom should I quarrelexcept in the hiss of love,that harsh, irregular flame?

SHE walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that 's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress,Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!